Morning sunlight streamed lazily into the classroom.
Julian rested his chin in one hand while expertly spinning a pen in the other, staring in utter boredom at the chemical equations on the chalkboard.
His mind wasn’t on the lesson at all.
Instead, his focus was entirely fixed on that faint, mysterious orb of light hovering in his mind.
Ever since it first appeared, the thing hadn’t made a single peep.
No matter how Julian tried to interact with it, it gave zero response.
It was practically dead.
Just as Julian was wondering if he was somehow activating his cheat code the wrong way, a hushed whisper drifted from behind him.
“Hey, Liz, let me tell you…” a Black girl with dreadlocks muttered, leaning in secretively toward the blonde girl next to her.
“One of my brother’s friends from college went on a road trip with his girlfriend along Route 9 a few days ago, and… hey, guess what?
They vanished!”
Liz’s eyes went wide.
She clamped both hands over her mouth and whispered back, “What?
That’s terrifying!
Is that for real?”
“A hundred percent real!
The NYPD and the FBI did a massive grid search, but all they found was their car parked on the side of the road.
The inside was completely covered in blood, but both of them were just gone!” The girl with dreadlocks nodded emphatically, her hands animating the gruesome story.
Liz gasped softly, then her eyes widened even further as if remembering something.
“Wait, I think I’ve heard of a case just like that!
My dad told me about it.
It was like twenty years ago, also near Route 9.
A bunch of people died, but they never caught the killer…”
Julian silently perked his ears up, his body unconsciously leaning further and further back in his chair to catch every word.
‘A string of highway disappearances?
A blood-soaked car?
Over twenty years ago?
Why does this plot sound so incredibly familiar…’
However, right as Julian was getting fully invested in the story, the two girls behind him abruptly stopped talking!
How could he possibly tolerate that?
Smack!
“Hiss—!”
Julian slapped Peter Parker’s thigh in his outrage and spun around, fully prepared to fiercely condemn the two girls for committing the ultimate sin of stopping a juicy story on a cliffhanger.
But the moment he turned around, he whipped right back around at lightning speed.
Simply put, the teacher who was supposed to be at the podium had somehow materialized directly behind him.
“Mr.
Julian, was there something you needed to share with the class?” Mr.
Dwight, the balding chemistry teacher, stared coldly at the back of Julian’s head.
Julian winced, slapping on a bright, utterly innocent smile as he slowly turned back around to face him.
“Uh… no, Mr.
Dwight,” he said with the utmost sincerity.
“I just suddenly remembered that my mom called me yesterday to say our dog just had her second litter and needs to go on maternity leave.
She wanted me to go home and cover the dog’s shifts, so I was originally going to ask for some time off.
But I thought about it, and I realized my studies are far more important, so I decided to let my dad cover the dog’s shifts instead.”
Silence descended upon the classroom.
Time flew by, and soon it was lunch.
In the multi-media room, Julian pulled an exquisite bento box out of his bag.
Inside was a mouthwatering spread of braised pork ribs, sweet and sour pork, stir-fried seasonal vegetables, and a small container of strawberry pudding.
He had specifically prepped it last night.
After all, having transmigrated into the incredibly dangerous Marvel universe, his only real comfort was telling himself, ‘At the very least, I have to eat well.’
However, Peter Parker, sitting across from him, wasn’t nearly as blessed.
Peter looked down at his own lunch, packed by Aunt May: a dry sandwich, a small bag of potato chips, and a bottle of cheap orange juice.
He stared at Julian’s feast, practically radiating pure jealousy.
Suddenly, a brilliant idea struck Peter.
Flashing a sly grin, he leaned in.
“Hey, J, did you know I did a super interesting experiment in biology class recently?”
Completely oblivious to the trap, Julian answered casually, “Oh?
What kind of experiment?”
Peter’s eyes lit up as he eagerly described it.
“We were observing the growth and development of maggots.
Watching those little, fat, white grubs squirming in and out of the rotting meat was just… Oh, right!
Mr.
Pulaski even had me help test a new type of artificial stomach acid, and the smell was exactly like—”
By the time Peter finished his overly graphic description, Julian’s face had scrunched up into an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.
Taking a smug bite of his sandwich, Peter looked at the suddenly silent Julian and asked with a wide grin, “Huh?
J, why aren’t you eating?
Are you full already?”
Julian slowly put down his chopsticks.
He shot Peter a flat, deadpan look and asked, “Peter, have you ever heard of a traditional Icelandic fermented delicacy called Hákarl?”
Having just taken a sip of his juice, Peter shook his head and answered honestly, “Uh… no, why?”
Hearing this, a brilliant, thoroughly evil smile bloomed across Julian’s face.
He began to speak in a slow, deliberate tone.
“Icelandic fermented shark, or Hákarl, is one of Iceland’s most iconic traditional foods, famous for its overwhelming ammonia stench and its highly unique fermentation process.
The traditional method involves burying chopped-up Greenland shark meat in a shallow pit dug into gravelly sand, crushing it under heavy stones, and letting it ferment and rot for three to six months.
The microorganisms break down the urea and toxins so it becomes technically edible.
“Once it’s sufficiently rotted, the meat is hung in a well-ventilated shed to wind-dry for another four to five months, until the crust turns dark brown but the inside remains greasy.
Icelanders usually cut this fermented shark meat into little cubes and eat it completely raw as an appetizer, washing it down with a shot of Brennivín, also known as ‘Black Death’ schnapps.
They usually enjoy it during their traditional winter festival alongside boiled sheep’s heads and congealed blood pudding.
“According to anyone who has ever survived eating it, it tastes exactly like industrial-strength ammonia or aged urine.
Taking a deep breath of it is like French-kissing a hundred violently sweaty, unwashed gym socks.
Some people describe the experience as ‘sticking a straw directly into a public urinal.’ When you eat it, the initial chew is supposed to be tender, leaving a fishy, sweet aftertaste, but you absolutely have to swallow it as fast as humanly possible to stop the stench of rotting death from permanently staining the inside of your mouth.”
Peter silently set down his juice and his sandwich.
All around them, the other students who had been peacefully enjoying their lunches also silently put down their food.
They cast intensely resentful, murderous glares at Julian and Peter, thoroughly disgusted by the two menaces.
Some people in that room were technically alive, but inside, their appetites were completely dead.
And some people were still breathing, but honestly, they should have been strangled a long time ago!
Peter stared back with an expression that practically screamed: ‘Okay, I know I was wrong, but if you don’t forgive me, then you’re the bad guy!’
Keeping his brilliant, beaming smile, Julian feigned deep concern and asked, “Huh?
Peter, why aren’t you eating?
Are you full already?”
“…”